﻿The Street Lit Blog

Below you'll find Street Lit news posts from my Austin years with the group, and a selection of the creative works of theStreet Lit Authors Club. I'll be posting new works from the Missoula folks sooner than later, so keep an eye on us. We've got great things in the works.

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“You know, dear, there are times that you say things that absolutely defy logic.”

His wife replied, “Sweetheart, I am so very sorry that you men simply cannot come to terms with the fact that we women are so much more clever than you.”

He said, under his breath, “Bitch.”

Hi wife raised her hand. “Dear? Did you say ‘bitch?’ Listen dickhead -- the only reason that you and your fellow three-legged, knucklehead buddies cannot be a bitch, as you say, is because not one of you is man enough. Now please be a good boy, finish your breakfast and go to work.”

“Speaking for myself, I know that I am more than man enough. We have three children to prove it.”

“Oui?” she said. “Sweetheart, I don’t know whether to be proud of you, or to be disappointed. All this time I thought you were having another affair, you were actually taking French lessons. I’m so proud of you. Say something sexy to me in French.”

“You know; she does have such a cute butt…”

“I give up,” he said. “I knew I would never win an argument that I didn’t know I started.”

“Yeah, you do that. Now it’s time for you to go save the world, and make me proud like a good boy.”

“Oh, by the way -- be home by eleven. There is a surprise I have for you. And I don’t want to mess up my new Reeboks.”

“Reeboks? I didn’t know you had sneakers. And what does my coming home at eleven have to do with messing up a pair of sneakers?”

“Dear, it’s like this. This surprise is very important to me, and if you come through that door any time after eleven I’m going to put one of them so far up that tight ass of yours that I promise you, you will shit a rubber tree. And you know how much I detest horticulture. Now will you go to work? I have things to finish.”

[Kiss Kiss Hugs Hugs Bye Bye…]

​Bill got up from the table and headed out to his waiting car. His driver opened the door and greeted him, “Good morning, Mr. President.”

Headhunters--live for to see you deadWatching in glee as you tap-dance on life’s thin edge, lingering, but never to actually liveAnd you have no thoughts of any enemies standing by disguised as friendsWho won’t let you in to breathe or out to leaveAnd each heave of your chest to draw a breath, must come to protest every loss of love along the wayOne by one like rows of dominoes fallen each other after the other--downHas drowned each lover that had made an offer or that stood secretly foundOn wings that fly them away in this gusty gale you made, where even your sadness has grown rustyHeadhunters, with slews of lewd voodoo dolls they intend to use--to stick pins in to master your moodsAnd each doll has a name: beer, cigarette, speed, meth, cocaine--all the sameAnd I the poet, the snitch, can channel what’s in their headsAnd I know they live to see you dying until you are dead in a pathetic fit--with a piss on it!To see you flung into a minister’s hissy fit of a hell on earth--and to smell!And all the poets will tell--that the headhunters stood by snickeringAt circles broke out around your eyes, at an addict’s hastily placed goodbyesAt that shallow glare in your jaundiced eyes, choked up with a puke in which your tongue lies--To lie a Lie--that this is the last time to slip (when you actually skipped) down that hellish holeDark, dank, and deepIn search of a high with naughty cries for freedom and liberty to let you in so you can claw your way out againAnd headhunters standing by snickeringBut on some days like today you’ll say, “hope has sprung up like the dawn”But I know it’s your enemy, from where you’re fromAnd soon to be a slain friend --with blood on itStrangled by your wickedest grasp To lay with a gasp dyingAnd so dawn becomes--a sunset Hope--lying with a raspy sighLike a sickened murmur upon the wind and sky Its burial nighBut for the final twistOne more breath to take And your insanity at stakeTo be mistaken for something saneTo have hope as a neighbor or a friendTo pit it against this ghetto existence--in vainSure not to let you in--to actually live cuffed to drugs’ golden chainsSo why not stop it here and now? Or you’ll strangle hope Dying until hope is deadHeadhunter’s sneering and snickering by its death bedWhile you stand in the spotlight, actually a flashlight--ugly, bloodied and redWith all out hopes for you--deadAnd the poets will tell--snitches all--That the headhunters stood by snickering at your final curtain call.

​PornographersbyLeonardo da Vinci ELook upon his or her face with a new-found respectBeing the source of the safety you’ve come to expectIn those moments of a most polarizing, fantasizingdevoid of any risk or any means of thisbeyond an imagined kiss upon a picture frame.And filmed not in vainbut made to sooth the thirst of a lusty lustwhich you can trust will be lusting And for those as ugly as I amwho will never touch the grace of a beautiful face Such as your own-to actually be with And to trace back to loveFor us fantasy is, and must be, all of the aboveLook upon his or her naked form with thoughts born of love And never harmFor those members of that liberated sectWho choose to be workers of sexWho visualize, harmonize, romanticizeA sensual pleasure for lonely mindsAnd who by their endeavor affords a transparent pleasureFrozen by celluloid in timeAnd becomes a means to one endUnleashing erotic passion in a civil fashionWhich spreads not broken hearts nor diseaseWhen addressing our human needs

I can't say quite why, but haiku became the thing We killed it, sometimes...

So, we all ganged up on syllable counts and the fingers flewand gentle arguments were argued over things like:"Is it baff-ul-ing? Or baff-ling?""It is what we want it to be. We decide!""This has an extra syllable, but I like it. I want to keep it.""Close enough," we said, "until something better comes to mind.""What does it mean?""I don't know!""Maybe these are like /puzzles for the mind to solve / Rorschach tests with words?""Ready, set, syllablize!"

Living the brushstrokes Enhancing the gift of time Love breathes into light.

It didn't end there, though. Josh, never one to leave well enough alone, went full mashup on us. After a smoke break / he sputtered, coughed, and revealed / an untitled gem:

A borrowed black hatMay emphasize the backgroundBad guys wear leather,But I don’t know whenOr if, or how, or where toThat I should also,It seems perhaps notIt always seems like henchmenTrying to climb upThe wall psychotic --Wailing pierces the holy landOut there can you help?Even a henchman may one day need his godTo climb the pink wallI wish I were coolBut bad guys don’t listenTo pop-punk music.

Half past three as Johnny enters the gym. Seven days a week, that place is home to him. Glory of yesterday, Johnny yearns for more. Reality of today he would ignore.

Day in day out, Johnny craves another bout. Day in day out, he won’t accept that his time has run out. Far too many times, Johnny’s been down for the count. Far too many times, he counters “I’ve been down, but never counted out.”

The boxer’s days became years, friends say “turn the page.” Johnny harps, “too much blood, sweat and tears…the best never age.” The boxer lives week to week, no family of which to speak. Johnny lives free, no burden or chains which to keep. The fight game is Johnny’s thing. The boxer’s life, forever in the ring.

What a differenceA hundred feet can makeUnderneath I-35On the river that’s a lakeOn the bridge the countless carsDriving north or southboundJust 100 feet below themTranquility can be foundOn the bridge, cars hurryTo get to where they’re going100 feet below themCanoes and kayaks slowly rowingThe peacefulness and nature's viewTake your breath awayTown Lake in Austin, TexasOn a mid-November day

Alena safety-pinned a label on the man’s lapel, and read it to her bear, Gerald: “This man refuses to open his eyes.” She skipped the bear across the attic floorboards and danced him to the wool scarf that served as the man’s neck. “Gerald the Bear says ‘Grr!’, Mister! You better wake up or I’m gonna fold you back in the box.”

The box was one of a baker’s dozen, stacked and soft with age and dust, leaning beside the table where Alena’s mother once kept her quilting materials. “Men” the box was named, printed in black marker dimmed to blue. Alena’s men were assembled from scraps, lined on their backs like an array of playing cards, their hats, caps, and yarn hair close against the angle where the roof line sloped into the floor. If they wanted to sit up, they would bump their heads, and Alena often warned them not to move as she adjusted their clothes, and their make-believe attitudes.

Gerald turned to her from the stubborn, closed-lidded man; threads hung from the teddy bear's cross-stitched mouth like droplets of blood.

“Good bear,” she said, and held Gerald to each face in turn to show them what vicious behavior he was capable of.

The man at the left consisted of work clothes—Dickies overalls, White Mule gloves, and for his head she’d scooped and patterned a round button face made of buttons itself, grimacing with a row of silver snaps and other glinting bits of toothy remnants. He had no hair—her dad had been bald—and his eyes were made of spools, bugging out in anger. She ignored him, no matter how much Gerald growled. Dad was best left alone.

Next she’d smoothed out a pair of torn Levi’s and a shirt that changed with her mood. Yesterday it had been a muscle shirt, today was dressier, a blue t-shirt with stained armpits, covered with a vest from a suit she couldn’t find. His head was empty except for his eyes she’d built of heaps of glitter, and his hair was long and straight, combed from brown yarn. He was a rock and roll rebel boy, her high school sweetheart someday. She called him Rascal, and he was the only one that Gerald approved of.

Gross John lay next to Rascal. A boring brown suit and hat, folded in half from brim to toe, as though he’d rolled over and gone to sleep. Gross John was her husband, who never came home from work, and it didn't matter anyway, because next to him lay her secret boyfriend, Raul. He didn’t have any clothes at all, just a pair of underwear she’d wickedly stuffed with socks, and eyes that winked and dazzled her: deep blue Pente orbs, stolen from the game downstairs.

And now, the difficult one. The one who refused, flat refused, to open his eyes!

“Maybe he’s asleep,” she whispered to Gerald.

In his bear voice he replied that maybe she hadn’t met him yet, and his eyes would open then.

The attic door slammed open against the bottom of the stairwell, and Alena almost bumped her head scooping up the men, bundling Gerald into the box with them, crying, “Who’s there?” before the trespasser could set foot on the stairs. “Stay there, stay there! I’m coming down in a minute!”

It was a warm December day turned cold because I found myself on the losing end of a sparring match with a dangerous foe…myself. Sad stories about life’s ups and downs are best saved for a Hallmark movie, so let’s just say that I was looking for a lighthouse to help me find my way through the storm which had become my life. Fate and destiny can be the biggest bitches in the world, but guiding lights they would become on that day, a day in which I would find sanctuary, as well as a savior. Drifting in a barrio section of the city which was once Park Avenue some fifty years ago, I came across a row of broken down business warehouses. These warehouse looked palatial in the memory of a hundred year old city resident, but they looked like slums in my eyes on that day. One of those little warehouses stood out like a tombstone in a cemetery full of wooden crosses. Engraved on the tombstone read “Boxing Gym.” It would seem as if the little house of dreams could see the despair in my eyes as it actually called for me to go inside. It was like Mama calling for me the first time I fell off my bike. The smell of the place almost turned me away; it reeked so bad that you could almost see the air itself. The musty smell of sweat and blood tested those strong enough to take a few more steps into the light. A quick leap of faith showed a litany of saints such as Ali, Frazier and Sugar Ray forever immortalized on boxing posters that covered the shrine walls. Tyson and Duran glared from the entrance as they dared the weak to take just a few more steps to glory. High noon was the time as I walked inside the place feeling like Doc Holliday. If you had eyes from the heart, you could almost see all the ghosts of the combatants that had come before, still throwing punches. Jump ropes hung from the walls like sleeping snakes that only woke up for the champions at heart. Heavy bags pieced together with gray duct tape hung from the ceiling like Christmas ornaments. The ring where the gladiators fought their demons laid in the middle of the gym on a raised platform. Those with courage needed only three steps to find their way out of hell, but the timid saw those same steps as a stairway to heaven. It’s inside the ring where you sometimes stand alone with your arms raised. Sometimes though you find yourself kneeling before an adversary like a sinner seeking redemption from a saint. A boxing gym, as I would soon learn, is a church for those with no religion but self-preservation. I felt at ease, I felt at home.“How you doin’?”I was startled by strong yet soothing sound of a man’s voice coming from behind me as if God were speaking to Moses. I turned around expecting a burning bush, but black Jesus stood before me instead. I was face to face with a tall stout black man with arms and legs that would make a tree green with envy. Gray woolen hair and a lumbering walk hinted that at this man’s six decades on Earth.“I’m Don.” Rank air turned rose scented, and the boxers inside the posters came to life as Don introduced himself. Don was a former boxer who trained the incorrigible of society, like myself. I felt comfortable telling this stranger about my plight, looking for something to believe in, something to shoot for…a purpose in life. Don had gone through his own rollercoasters in life, and he gave a sermon about how boxing had saved his soul…by giving him purpose as well. He preached that boxing is discipline mixed with pain and sweat, a template that I would take with me the rest of my life.“Make this place your home,” said the minister. Don would become my coach and mentor, but more importantly he would become my friend who taught me many things inside and outside the ring which would help me become someone better than the loser who first walked in that gym. Don harped that boxing is not about sport, it’s about finding courage to step through the ropes and face the challenges of life. Five years have passed since I crossed that threshold of hooks and uppercuts. I’ve held no title belt, but a champion I’ve become. I am now the greatest, the greatest me that I can be. My church is there for those seeking salvation from the past. My church welcomes sinners and saints alike, and sacrifice pays the tithe.

​We Are the Atheists (Murderers of All the Gods)by Leonardo da Vinci E.

I am a truth sayer and a God-slayer And it is my honor never to have willingly—slain a manBut for to take his hand—in peaceBut no gods have lived after there was ITo see them standing there alone, before my swordOwned for its truth to fall upon themAnd you know in your heart the reasonApollo, Zeus, Isis, OdinAnd many more are all slainAnd why to worship them now—is considered a shameAs truth has one by one called them by name—to justiceAnd now there is left only one eternal flame Left to extinguish—I am stalkingAnd he shakes mightily to hide himselfLest my eyes fall upon even his shadowWhere I yet upon his trailWill not fail but to slay his frail and false moralityHis invisible and thus immoral heartAnd what will ye serve then—Oh humanity?When that moment comes and you realize youWere really all alone under the sunWith only physics and yourselvesAnd being freed from heaven or hell—unprepared!But we the humanist have prepared a placeFor thee—Oh humanityTo dry your eyes after all the lies have been definedAnd what to do now is to serve the goodFor the purpose of destroying chaos—my loveTo serve the fairness for the sake of an orderly peaceTo do justice for to establish a reason for loveTo worship courtesy as the prerequisite for human contact—my loveWith concepts we’ll call ethicsBecause morality mixed with mysticism, hatreds, and superstitions will be deadAnd all their imaginary GodsSlain by humanist atheists

​I really don’t remember the name of the story. I know it was about some guy named Macomber. There were others involved, too. I really don’t remember their names.

I think there was a wife, a guide, and a tiger.

My instructor, Professor Griffith, asked me to write a paper on the three unfulfilled quests in the story. To this day I cannot remember the goals of the people in the story: Macomber, his wife, and the guide.

I can only remember there were in fact four quests in the story.

The tiger that was killed was on a quest of its own.It never made it to the top of the hill. It could have had cubs. I don’t know. Now it was no more. It was forgotten.

Am I that light bread, that white bread that one just kneads and kneads between the five fingers of the hand until I’m dough?

Now what?

You think I can be shaped and molded all over again?

No, you are not my maker. As a matter of fact, do you have a moment? A moment: the petite messenger that shapes and molds the both of us daily. Minute by minute as a matter of fact. Every time, we, you, and me. Blink your eyes and believe it or not, our changes are being made. Oh yes, even as we speak! By the time I got through a word, a statement, our emotion just went from one way to another.

All I’m saying is we are together in this walk. You are to help me, and I am to help you. And together possibly we can see a positive growth, change for the betterment of both lives.

You know! You and me.

Stay with me.

I need your help. Really— All that’s being said is that we’re all the same.

What puts one beyond the other in human terms is that one may be consistently studying, and performing what he studies, to become more intelligent than the other.

Think!

As a matter of fact, don’t we all begin our day the same as the other? Each day to knead and shape and mold all over again?

I always knew this day would comeSometimes felt that it would neverFigured that all my problems Were all connected to the whetherWhether I took advice from others Or figure it out on my own Go see friends about my problemsOr whether, I’d call them on the phone Whether I stayed too long at partiesBarely walk from all the snow Sometimes I’ve fallen on the iceFrom not being able to just say noWhether I’m the last one at the partyOr the first one to arriveWhether or not, I drink too much Sometimes just to feel aliveWhether I passed out from the pillsI thought would somehow kill the pain Sometimes stay inside for daze To find myself outside, standing in the rain But today, it finally came to me Hopefully remembering from now on foreverSomehow all the problems in my lifeAre all connected to the whether

You paint LOUD! with eyes screaming wide. Teeth rattling the backs of my eyeballs, Color wailing through open windows, Shapes bellowing over gray-slicked streets. You drown out the red-blue sirens, and shout down like a boss​ the erasures of the day.

It was so big. A giant peace symbol on the side of the ship. (The bottom leg was missing, so it was more of a Mercedes symbol.)

Now I knew why the U.S.S. Forrestal side cleaners got their liberty cancelled and had to return to the ship in Barcelona. They had scrubbed a mile high peace sign on the seaward hull where nobody would see it. The tide had turned, and the seaward side of the ship was now the shoreward side. Everybody saw it then!

Barcelona is too nice a port to have a short liberty at. I got to buy a guitar there, anyway, and met a very nice prostitute who called me a cab and told the cabbie not to rip me off and even paid the fare, and I never even used her services!